Thursday, July 2, 2020

Build me up, buttercup.

Two nights in a row of at least eight hours of unbroken sleep. Sleep is restorative, she said. I must be in ruins to crave this much.

Fifty-four years old today. Something I never thought possible in my youth. But I'm still here, despite the times I said I didn't want to be.

The Dominican girls at the Dunkin Donuts called out "Mister Cappuccino !" when I went inside today instead of using the drive-thru as usual. Jessica showed me the new butterfly tattooed on her forearm. I told them it was my birthday, and they shouted the usual wishes. One asked if I was 21. Yes, I answered, roughly.

Tomorrow is the anniversary of a morning I don't like to remember but too often do. The final scene.

You getting out of my car walking up the stairs and down the length of the walk to your door without looking back. A finality I could feel.

What is worse though is remembering how my perception of you changed over the course of that morning. The way I knew and understood you was shifting. I didn't want to let go of that.

But by the time we made it to your house, there was no more we. And you were someone else entirely.




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